


A Look Ahead: Being the Fourteenth Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion

by LooNEY_DAC



Series: The Sword [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-31 18:26:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC





	1. Incident & Accident

Dunbar.

I never thought I’d see him again, but here he is.

“Dunbar” is how I’m going to be referring to the man who used to be one of my best friends; I’ve referred to him as “Ben” in prior stories, which was also a cover name so my parents wouldn’t know which bunch of boys from the wrong side of the tracks I was palling around with, since they were snobbish enough that I thought they’d keep me away from them if they knew.

Anyway, Dunbar is a few years older than me, and not only is he one of those guys everybody likes, but he always seemed to be destined for bigger and better things than even I should have been (if my parents had had anything to say about it).

I know he would have helped me when my parents died, but he had already left home for the state capital (and the capitol), making his way up the ladder with a rep for cleanness that only surprised those who knew the vaguest outlines of his life story, rather than anyone who, you know, actually knew him. I called at his parents’ place while I was still trying to evade the orphan-catchers, and they wasted no time in ratting me out (gotta protect their son, after all); so I haven’t seen him in what seems like forever, but, again, here he is.

Apparently someone had finally noticed that nobody in the Camp had gone in or left or written or called anyone since the goons came in, and another someone, on being appraised of this, had sent Dunbar over to get the straight scoop. This had, of course, led to him being locked in with the rest of us as soon as he’d shown up at the gate, though it also means that Mr Price and his goons are facing crunch time for whatever they’ve been planning to do, as Dunbar will be missed a lot more quickly than the Camp and its ilk were.

But what on earth are they planning to do, anyway?

I’ve racked my brain over and over again ever since the goons took the camp over, and I still have no idea why; further, I still have no clue as to why Mr Price is playing his stupid game of pretending to be a prisoner like the rest of us, or why Melegrethan has played along with him to date. None of it makes sense.

There has to be something I’m missing about this whole setup: I can’t believe Melegrethan would act as he is without some good reason, even if I wouldn’t agree about it being good enough.

This whole thing reminds me of a weird modern play being staged for a hidden audience, like something Allen Funt would cook up, or maybe some cockeyed psychological study. But how will Dunbar’s entrance on the stage affect how the play unfolds? Will I have to keep him safe? Will I be able to keep Joey and Cookie safe?

Complicating matters is the accident that occurred right after Dunbar arrived; it was, of course, my fault, because if there’s one thing at which I truly excel, it’s making a bad situation worse through my own clumsiness.

Now, put me in the ring against anyone you please and I won’t miss a step in trying to beat him down to defeat, but for some reason outside of a fight I get these sudden bursts of clumsiness where I’m liable to trip over my own feet and knock the whole building I’m in down when I fall. It’s one of the things that I find the most confusing and annoying about myself.

So how did I manage to mess everything up this time?

It started with my latest excursion to the Realm, which was another odd one…

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. On Vacation?

When the swirling greyness cleared, I had absolutely no idea where I was or why I’d been sent there. I had decidedly not had the usual briefing (however incomplete it tended to prove to be) from Melegrethan; in fact, I’d had absolutely no warning of the sending in any form or from any source, which was a decided departure from the norm.

I had also not seen one hint of the First Protector during my transit, but that was less unexpected.

Anyway, when I emerged from the transit, I was in what looked like an exhibition gallery in a museum; the subject of the exhibition seemed to be the Protectors of the Realm.

I recognized some of the stuff on display from the Tower of the Protectors, while some of the other stuff was rather self-explanatory, but there were not a few things on display which left me utterly baffled.

More baffling still, though, was the question uppermost in my mind: what on earth was I supposed to be doing here?

Something fell to the stone floor behind me with a clatter perfectly calculated to rouse me from my bewildered abstraction, though I doubt that that was its purpose. It also served to make me think that there was something off about the passage of time in this place, since I’d thought that at least five minutes had passed while I checked the place out.

When I turned to investigate the noise, I saw a man dressed in an informal version of the regalia of the Line of Magnatharast; the noise had come from his dropping a small tin chest when he’d caught sight of me.

They say the Habsburgs, the Hohenzollerns and the scions of Victoria’s line each have their distinctive “look” that can be traced in portraiture back through the centuries; I believe that more for having seen this man, who could have been a carbon copy of the Perethegrast that I knew (though slightly older, of course).

After a moment’s dead silence, he spoke. “The Young Protector!”

It was not a bit disconcerting that his voice was absolutely nothing like that of the Perethegrast that I knew. His accent was also kinda weird, but I understood him well enough. “You have the advantage of me… sir?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to address him, as he might be the King, the Heir, or one of a number of princes, each of which were supposed to be addressed just slightly differently unless they told you otherwise. (I have not yet had one of the Royals request me to address them as “Skippy” or some such, but I regard it as only a matter of time.)

The question in my voice recalled him to himself. “I have the honor to be Perethegrast of the Line of Magnatharast, Eighth of that name to be King of the Realm.”

I made the proper obeisance. “Your Majesty.” It relieved me to have that little bit of social business settled: I dislike social situations at the best of times; add uncertainty about the niceties into the mix and I’m really terrible at it.

The most recent Perethegrast blinked a few times. “Please forgive my discomposure,” he said after a few more seconds. “I was not expecting that the Help the Coin would bring me would be… you.” Then he muttered (most likely thinking that I wouldn’t hear him), “Though I probably should have guessed.”

Ah; there was something similar about their voices after all: the rampant hero worship that occasionally filled them. “You sought to bring aid via the Coin?”

The king nodded, holding the Coin up for me to behold.

A few more expectant seconds passed before I finally prompted him, “Why?”

Perethegrast frowned. “That,” he said heavily, “is more complicated to answer than you might expect, Young Protector…”

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Spoilers!

I smiled at the king; I hoped it was an encouraging smile, but it’s not like I practice my expressions in front of a mirror like the upper-crust Brits did in Victoria’s day. “Try me.”

The king started to smile back, but his face collapsed into worry again. “The trouble is that I’m not sure how much I should tell you, since you haven’t been through it yet.”

Oh, great. “So, this is after the Reign of Alamanast, King of the Realm (Twelfth of that Name)?” It wasn’t much of a question, really, but I was a tad dispirited at the notion that I had been sent right past the era of the Realm that I most desired to visit.

It wasn’t much of a question, so it didn’t get much of an answer: the king merely nodded before saying, “Quite.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “There were only five Perethegrasts who had reigned by that time.”

And he was the eighth. Well, either there had been not a few tragedies in the Line of Magnatharast within a very short period, or I was (carry the three…) around half a millennium after my last visit to Alamanast the Twelfth, give or take. [Editors’ Note: to be exact, Perethegrast King of the Realm (Eighth of that Name) reigned from the Year of the Realm (YR) 1595 to YR 1655; this adventure took place in YR 1602.]

For a moment I wondered if this was to be the beginning of a new era of my service as the Young Protector, but the notion didn’t ring true, especially since Perethegrast had referred to knowing of things that I had not gone through as yet, implying that I would be returning to the Realm in at least one of the other periods which I had visited.

Or that’s what I hoped it implied, at least.

At any rate, the king had called for aid in the here and now, and that was certainly more important than any amount of wishful thinking right now. Idle speculation must be put aside for the moment in favor of the task at hand, but what was the task at hand? I needed the king to tell me, no matter the potential problems of paradox or causation.

Apparently Perethegrast had come to the conclusion that he needed to tell me as much as I needed him to tell me, because he began to speak before I could request that he do so. “A Darkness is coming; that much all of us can feel, but no one amongst us knows what it will be or, indeed, even when it will come upon us. All we know is that its time is at hand, and that none of us can stand before it.” He looked down at the Coin he still held. “I don’t know why I chose to find the Coin, but I did, and it brought you, so I can only assume that you are to be our salvation once more.”

No pressure there, was there? On the other hand, maybe he was overstating the coming danger a bit, just to keep me on my toes. Be that as it may, I was not particularly inclined to think this danger would be long in coming, since I was generally launched into these situations as a sort of one man fire brigade, and while that gets a bit wearing at times, it means I have to keep my wits about me wherever I go.

A few seconds later, and certainly before I had had time to finish formulating a reply to his majesty, a series of incredibly loud thunderclaps burst inside the room, scattering both of our wits in the commotion…

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Or Not

Ow.

Just remembering the thunderclaps brings back an all too intense echo of the pain they caused me, amplified by the hard stone walls of the exhibition room we were in. I’m a bit surprised the noise didn’t do any actual or lasting damage to my ears.

Certainly there would be no time for talking henceforth, even if we could have through the temporary deafness induced by the thunderclaps. But what had caused these tremendous noises?

The king’s sudden look of horror at something behind me made me turn around, and I saw—the Magician. You have no idea how difficult it was for me not to add any number of unprintable qualifiers to his title when writing this down just now, but, be they obscene, profane or merely vulgar, I managed to avoid it. Shreds of scroll paper were just evaporating from around him, which told me that he had just arrived from the battle of wits that had been so long ago for me [Editors’ Note: in the second tale].

The Magician and I stared at each other for a long moment in stunned amazement; then, just like we were characters in some silly Hollywood melodrama, we both spoke the same words at the same time: “You again?!?” Seriously, it was like we’d rehearsed it or something.

In that moment, the thought went through my mind that it seemed a bit odd that he recognized me as instantly as I recognized him because since the last time he’d seen me I’d aged five years or so, but I put the thought aside as not particularly relevant to defeating him in whatever he was about to try. It will be relevant in the near future; however, this is not the place to write about why.

At a cry from the king, I half-turned just in time to catch the Medallion the king had thrown to me. Fortunately, the Magician was in a position relative to where the king and I were that made interposing myself between the Magician and the king entirely too easy, though when I saw where the Magician had turned his attention I wished I had moved elsewhere.

The Witching Ring glittered in a case barely an arm’s length from the Magician, and too far away from either the king or me for one of us to attempt to block the Magician from reaching it. “Don’t—” Perethegrast began, but even as he spoke, the Magician was in motion, popping the case open in one deft move, his gnarled fingers unerringly seeking the sinister metal band.

The king and the Magician spoke simultaneously, though in quite different tones: “It’s paste.”

As a much better writer than I put it (speaking about sticks of “dynamite” the character found in a museum), “Of course the things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence”; and likewise _of course_ what was in the case was only a paste replica of the Witching Ring, as the real thing would be far worse than dynamite in the wrong hands.

The king added, “You won’t find the genuine article in this place.”

The Magician’s face darkened still further. “All right; I’ll make my own then.” He pulled out the Wand I’d seen him use earlier when working his evil sorcery. From this close, I could see that the tip still looked like it was a fragment of something much larger and even more sinister, and that it was still fastened to the handle with rude and crude leather thongs.

The Magician began to make a series of small, efficient and yet somehow vaguely obscene gestures both with the Wand and with his free hand, and I could feel the powers of evil gathering in response, like a hint of some vile scent so faint as to be nearly undetectable or a faint yet high pitched sound just loud enough to jangle you out of your skin; yes, I felt the power growing with each odd motion the Magician made, but I knew with that weird Protectorly intuition that I was powerless to interfere with what the Magician was doing.

Then, with a loud bang, it was finished: the Witching Ring shone with an evil allure from the Magician’s outstretched hand, the Wand glinting maliciously in the other. “Oh,” the Magician crooned to his new creation, “aren’t you a pretty bauble, then.”

I felt my heart stop for a moment when the Magician finally looked back up from the Ring. “And now,” he hissed (though I have no idea how you hiss something with no sibilants), “ _Protector_ , meet your doom!”

A beam that was somehow too dark to look at poured forth from the Wand, evidently enhanced by the Ring. I moved out of pure instinct, brandishing the Medallion which flashed in response. For a split second, it looked like the dark stroke would prevail over the barrier the Medallion had put in its path, but then I felt the Coin slide into my free hand, and the dark blast simply withered away.

The Magician let out an animal noise of pure frustration. Despite the power the Ring granted him, he still wasn’t strong enough to overcome the Coin and the Medallion together. At least, in his frail human form he wasn’t strong enough.

I saw the change come over the Magician’s face when he realized what he had to do. “ _Lex Draconis_ it is, then,” he muttered, and smiled fiercely at me. The Magician’s form began to twist…

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. The Wyrm Returns

Even remembering the transformation turns my stomach, so I’ll be as sparing with the details as I can; suffice it to say that there was not one instant of it that was not highly repugnant. The only consolation (as such) was that the Magician seemed to be going through as much pain as I had when he’d turned me into a bunny.

Eventually, though, the great fetid bulk of the Dragon loomed in the suddenly very cramped gallery, its eyes glowing with malevolence and spite. The sight was enough to make even the bravest heart quail, but while mine did, I held myself in place through perhaps the greatest effort of will that I’ve had to exert.

Of course, this wouldn’t be a confrontation with the Magician if he didn’t try to flay me verbally before cutting loose with his actual attack. It _really_ wouldn’t be a confrontation with the Magician if he wasn’t both as wordy and as gloating as possible about it, to boot. “Yes, pitiful boy: tremble before my majesty! You stand no chance of victory now that I blah blah blah BLAH blah ultimate power blah blah blah random EMPHATIC word and ending on an exclamation point!”

The saddest thing about the whole oration was that the transformation had had the notable side effect of giving the Dragon the worst case of halitosis it’s ever been my misfortune to experience. This stood in sharp contrast to my earlier encounters with the Magician in Dragon form, and I couldn’t help wondering why this time was the exception, so I cut into his monologue to ask him.

To say that the Dragon was not pleased at the interruption would be an understatement on the order of calling the Atlantic Ocean “the pond”. “How DARE you insult me so? BLAH blah blah blah…” And on, and on. “Well, now your dreams of power and glory will end as swiftly as they began!”

Wait, wasn’t that my line? The Dragon went on in this vein, his words showing not a hint that he didn’t sincerely believe that I was motivated by the lust for fame, glory and power that had impelled him on his own course.

All the time that the Dragon had been speaking, I was almost frantically scanning the gallery for anything I could possibly use in the coming fight (not that I was stupid enough to obviously look away from the Dragon, of course). Now, however, I felt that I needed to answer this particular charge in the most effective way I could think of: ridicule.

The raspberry I blew provoked an expression to cross the Dragon’s face that I would have sworn it couldn’t wear, which was why it took a moment for me to recognize it. The look of blank incomprehension only deepened when I actually spoke. “Do I really need to tell you where you can shove that idea?”

This actually stunned the Dragon into silence, so I went on. “If I wanted power, why would I have brought Perry back to claim his throne? Why would I have left the Line of Magnatharast in charge when I could have taken them down so many times? And why would I let myself be sent for by the Coin, even when it drops me into situations like this?”

The Dragon’s mouth moved wordlessly for a moment. Finally, he said, “Enough talk. If you want, I’ll let you run away now.” A sneer replaced the perplexed expression with the last sentence.

I stood my ground. “I am the Young Protector: it was for this that I was brought here, and if that means my death, so be it; but I think I may yet overcome.”

The Dragon sneered even harder. “Perhaps you may overcome me, but can you overcome _them_?”

The doors on either side of the gallery swung open with a mighty slam, and in poured a horde of people. I readily recognized them as being under the Dragon’s spell, just as he had ensorcelled all of the Realm just before my first trip there. Now effectively living zombies, they would blindly obey whatever command the Dragon gave them, even unto their own deaths.

The crowd moved towards me relentlessly…

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. What, and Give Up Show Biz?

The Dragon sneered smugly as the horde of zombified people inched their way towards me, not bothering to come after me itself since said horde presented me with a much worse conundrum than anything else it could arrange.

I didn’t have the Sword, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have let me use it on the poor ensorcelled wretches slowly making their way to attack me, even if I would have tried to use it against them. So the upshot of all these _couldn’t_ s and _wouldn’t_ s and _didn’t_ s was that I was more or less defenseless against the mob that would shortly rip me to shreds, which the Dragon knew and reveled in knowing. It was just about the perfect trap for a Protector.

Without thinking, I raised my hand, exposing the brand on my palm. I had received the brand when the Miners had accepted me as their poor substitute for Moses in their quest for deliverance from their slavery under the Bunny Empire, but it had never given the least indication that it bore any power before that moment.

To be fair, the brand might not actually have any power of its own; all I know is that the sight of it stopped the mob in its tracks. It was almost like time itself had stopped in that moment, since no one in the crowd even seemed to be breathing, much less moving. The Dragon broke the sensation by looking back and forth between me and the crowd a few times, again wearing that expression of utter incomprehension which I was starting to find rather comical by this point.

I felt Perethegrast’s hand clasp my shoulder and reflexively froze. “Good job,” he muttered to me, relieving my sudden fear that he’d been ensorcelled as well.

I didn’t turn around. “Not over yet,” I murmured back. I had certainly not forgotten that the Dragon was still an overwhelming physical menace, even without any of the other tricks it could bring to bear.

The Dragon’s head snapped back around to look at me again, even more malevolence in its gaze at my repeated frustration of its plans. I could almost see the train of thought chasing itself through the Dragon’s convoluted mind: How had I done it? That should have been the perfect plan! Well, however I’d managed to stop the horde, there was still the realm of brute force to hand, and so it must be!

It’s amazing what goes through your head when you think you’re about to die. There’s the cliche about your life flashing before your eyes, and the cliche about even atheists crying out to God for help, and many other such. I read somewhere that the last word most men dying in military hospitals say before they die is “Mother” (or the equivalent in whatever language they speak); I figure that that’s because they’re calling out for the only person who they know loves them absolutely.

When the Dragon lunged at me, I didn’t scream, call for God or my mother, or watch every bad decision I’ve ever made parade before my eyes, even though I was pretty sure that I was about to die. I didn’t even close my eyes or shrink back from the oncoming attack by tooth and claw. Certain thoughts did go racing through my head, but since I know Melegrethan reads this, I’ll keep them to myself, thank you very much.

What I will say is that time seemed to come to a dead stop again; I’ve heard about this happening often enough to know that it’s an adrenaline effect on your perception that helps to speed your reactions enough to get you out of trouble, though this was trouble I couldn’t avoid without endangering King Perethegrast.

My empty hand was still outstretched to display my branded palm as the Dragon lunged at me. In the instant before the Dragon reached me, my empty fingers reflexively closed around the hilt of the Sword…

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. I Tread on Him

The Dragon was huge and massive and moving incredibly fast, but despite that, it managed to pull away from its lunge at me so that only the very tip of the Sword barely grazed its flank; this was still enough to open a wide gash down its side. The Dragon reeled away, howling and cursing in pain.

Well. I blinked in surprise at not actually being dead after all.

Of course, there was still a regular horde of (sort of) zombified people distressingly close to me; a horde I’d been holding off with the brand on the hand that was currently holding the Sword; a horde that might or might not still be locked in place. I had perforce removed my attention from them when the Dragon had charged me.

So I wasn’t dead _yet_ , but _yet_ was still the operative word as far as I was concerned, whether or not the King was right about my having more missions to complete in future; perhaps I would be protected from death here, and perhaps not; in response to the question Melegrethan had asked me right after we got to the Camp: no, I wasn’t (and still am not) willing to risk the Realm in order to find out (to say nothing of the pesky little matter of _potentially dying_ ).

The crowd was still motionless, but obviously also still under the Dragon’s sway (however that worked). The Medallion had freed everyone around me from this enchantment in that first encounter; that it hadn’t this time filled me with foreboding. I had the nasty feeling that I’d have to kill the Dragon (not that it would stay dead this time more than any of the others) before this crowd would be free again.

The Dragon was either in utter agony or just liked playing up how hurt it was for sympathy; knowing the Dragon of old, I was heavily inclined towards the latter. I turned my attention back to the crumpled behemoth just in time to brandish the Medallion in its direction before it could complete the series of gestures it was in the middle of making.

I found (and still find) it amazing how consistent it was that every time some evil spell required the caster to make gestures while casting it, those gestures were of the obscene variety. I forbore from replying in kind, instead keeping both Sword and Medallion at the ready for whatever the Dragon’s next move might be.

Well, that was my intention, at least, but a moment later, I was standing over the Dragon’s huge bulk, plunging the Sword deep into its gut; somehow I knew that its heart lay right where the Sword was aimed for. Fortunately (ha, ha), the Dragon was too shocked or weakened or whatever to rip me to shreds as it probably could easily have done under what you might call more normal circumstances; the best it could manage was to say, “Well, shut my mouth and call me Criminy,” before its head fell back and the light went out of its eyes.

My gorge rose, threatening to choke me; not from “killing” (the quotes stay until I know it’s dead) the Dragon, but because of the horrible familiarity of the last phrase it had used. “It was Mister Price,” I said numbly.

Though I hadn’t actually addressed the remark to the King (I hadn’t even known I was speaking aloud, to be honest), he answered anyway. “Yes, it was. And yes, you will have to fight him again, both here and in your world.”

I turned to face the King and the crowd of now de-sorcelled (or un-enchanted or however you want to call it) people. There didn’t seem to be anything I could say to that, so for once I kept my mouth shut. 

Perethegrast looked at me solemnly and continued, “The Realm thanks you once again for delivering us, Young Protector. Now, however, you must return to what you must face next.”

And then I was back amid the silvery swirls of Transition…

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Forth and Back, Attorneys-At-Law

The first words I heard on my return were, “Well, shut my mouth and call me Criminy.” If I had had any doubt about what I’d deduced and King Perethegrast had confirmed, that doubt was gone. Not only was it the same phrase, and said in the same pattern of intonations, but it was the same voice saying it, down to the last little rasp—and it came out of Mister Price’s mouth.

Fortunately, he wasn’t talking about my arrival from nowhere in the middle of the assembly area, as neither he nor any of the others were paying me any attention. No, what had caused my old enemy such consternation was that the goons had somehow completely lost track of where Dunbar was long enough for Dunbar to rig some kind of smoke bomb that would have brought the local fire brigade down on the Camp like a ton of bricks if the goons hadn’t caught it in time.

I stood there, the shock of my new knowledge rippling through me. I don’t know how long I would have stayed like that, because after only a moment or two, Melegrethan pulled me away from the group, undoubtedly with some explanation of his desiring to counsel me further (as was his putative responsibility in his Camp role).

Mister Price is the Magician. No, not _is_ ; _will be_ , because there’s no hint of the magic addiction on Mister Price that’s so obvious in the Magician; unless, of course, he’s using some other trick to disguise it, but now that it’s been rubbed in my face, I can see how Mister Price’s face will age into that of the Magician, so I don’t think there’s any such trickery here. That said,

OK, WHY ON EARTH IS MELEGRETHAN HOLDING BACK FROM TAKING DOWN THE ENEMY OF THE REALM THAT’S THREATENED IT PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE?!?!?!?

I just—

I can’t—

[Editors’ Note: The last passage was hastily and poorly written down, though with great force and emotion; the next passage is back to the writer’s usual clear handwriting. Obviously there was a break in the writing at this point, as the text implicitly confirms.]

I know why Melegrethan has “stayed his hand” thus far, as he puts it; he told me so just now. I’m far from sure that I agree with his reasoning on just about any level, but now I see the sense it makes to him to do what he’s been doing.

When I wrote the last bit down, it was right after Melegrethan hustled me back to our usual debriefing room, where he explained what Dunbar had done while I was gone; he then handed the book to me and told me to get everything down, just like normal, and that he come by in a bit to clear as much of the rest of it up as he could.

I took a lot less time to “get everything down” than Melegrethan expected; that, or he was hoping that I’d calm down after having some time to collect myself. If so, he was wrong.

As soon as Melegrethan was back in our little interview chamber, I fairly exploded with the question I wrote so forcefully above.

Melegrethan kept his face impassive until I was ready for him to answer me. “The snake you can see is less likely to surprise you by striking out of cover. It can still strike you,” he added, forestalling my obvious objection, “but if you’re keeping an eye on it, you’re better able to counter it.”

I turned that over in my head for a moment. “Also,” Melegrethan continued, “switching similes, if you’re watching over a flock of sheep and you see a wolf trying to pretend that it’s part of the flock, would you want to let the wolf know you’ve spotted it before you’re ready to kill it?”

“And just how many of the flock have to die before you’ll go after this wolf?” I countered, Manfredi and Johnson front and center in my mind.

Melegrethan sighed, his face seeming to age a decade or two over the few seconds that he was silent. “I’ve indulged my own vanity too much, both with him and with you.

“I actually have gone after him several times before, but he kept weaseling his way out from under my accusations. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lower myself in your eyes with this admission of my failure.”

I crossed my arms pugnaciously. “There’s a time and a place for everything, as you’ve reminded me so often; the time for accusations ended when his goons took over the Camp.”

“Law and Justice know no season,” Melegrethan retorted. “I will not set aside the justice of this land for the law of the jungle as lightly as you’re willing to.”

“How lightly is people dying?” I challenged. “Does their blood not call out to the heavens? Is there to be no justice for their murders?”

“Jungle justice is no justice worth having.”

We were decidedly at an impasse. Neither of us was willing to give ground on this, so we sat there silently, each trying to glare the other into relenting.

Eventually, Melegrethan broke the silence with a tired sigh. “It’s not like Manfredi and Johnson were his first murders, you know. Twenty years ago now, he killed his parents because they were an inconvenience to him, and only really bothered to make it look like it wasn’t his fault so that he wouldn’t face the penalty of Law.” Melegrethan shook his head. “I know this as certainly as I know my own name, but I cannot prove it or anything else that he’s done since against him in court; thus, I’ve had to wait until he did something I could actually and unambiguously nail him with.”

I blinked in surprise. “How did he get here, then?” As I mentioned, Mister Price had been touted as one of the Camp’s earliest success stories.

“He took a plea deal,” Melegrethan answered. “No more than I could they prove anything against him other than that he wasn’t in the orphanage where the state would have left him, so they sent him here to test the Camp on someone of his ilk.”

“And he pulled the wool over their eyes so successfully that there’s nothing the law can do to touch him,” I finished.

“Just so.” Melegrethan sighed again.

I wasn’t going to give up so easily. “There has to be something that we can do to bring him down, even without the law to back us up.”

“Such actions as you would have us take are those on the path of the Assassin,” Melegrethan said bluntly. “I will not stand for any such actions on your part any more than my own.”

With that, he got up from the table and left the room. I must take it as his final word on the subject.

Is my desire to avenge Manfredi and Johnson the desire of an Assassin? It worries me no end that I cannot repudiate the accusation with certainty, but it still needs to take a back seat to the worry I have over what’s going to happen next in the Camp.

How many more must die before Mister Price is finally stopped?

THUS ENDS

A Look Ahead

Being the Fourteenth Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion

THE STORY CONTINUES WITH

Whispers

Being the Fifteenth Tale of the Coin, the Sword and the Medallion


End file.
